Wild Cards

by George R. R. Martin

  “Now do you see why I don't want you working with me?”

  The moon had managed to slip beneath the skirt of the clouds, and the pale silver light streaming across the snow made the city look almost clean. They stood on the edge of Central Park, breath mingling in soft white puffs as she stared seriously up into his face.

  “I see that you're trying to protect and shelter me, but I don't think it's necessary. And after watching you tonight . . .” She hesitated, searching for a way to soften her next words. “I think I can deal with it better than you can. You care for your patients, Tach, but their deformities and insanities . . . well, they disgust you too.”

  He flinched. “Blythe, I'm so ashamed. Do you think they know, can they sense?”

  “No, no, love.” Her hand stroked his hair, soothing him as she would one of her young children. “I see it only because I'm so close to you. They see only the compassion.”

  “The Ideal knows I've tried to suppress it, but I've never seen such horrors.” He jerked away from her comforting arms, and paced the sidewalk. “We don't tolerate deformity. Among the great houses such creatures are destroyed.” There was a faint noise, and he turned back to face her. One gloved hand was pressed to her mouth, and her eyes were wide, glittering pits in the glow from a nearby streetlight. “And now you know I'm a monster.”

  “I think your culture is monstrous. Every child is precious no matter what its disabilities.”

  “So my sister thought, and our monstrous culture destroyed her too.”

  “Tell me.”

  He began drawing random patterns on a snow-covered park bench. “She was the eldest, some thirty years my senior, but we were very close. She was married outside the house during one of those rare family truces. Her first child was defective and put down, and Jadlan never recovered. She killed herself several months later.” His hand swept across the bench, obliterating the drawings. Blythe lifted his hand, and chafed the chilled fingers between her gloved hands. “It started me thinking about the whole structure of my society. Then came the decision to field-test the virus on earth, and that was the end. I couldn't sit by any longer.”

  “Your sister must have been special, different, like you.”

  “My cousin says it's the Sennari line that we carry. It's a throwback recessive that—according to him, anyway—should never have been permitted to continue. But I'm losing you with all this talk of pedigree, and your teeth are rattling in your head. Let's get home and get you warm.”

  “No, not until we settle this.” He didn't pretend not to understand. “I can help you, and I insist that you let me share this with you. Give me your mind.”

  “No, that would be eight personalities. It's too many.”

  “Let me be the judge of that. I'm managing just fine with seven.”

  He made a rude noise, and she stiffened with outrage. “Like you managed in February when I found Teller and Oppenheimer battling over the hydrogen bomb, while you stood like a zombie in the center of the room?”

  “This will be different. You're beloved to me, your mind will not harm me. And beyond the work . . . when I have your memories and knowledge you won't be lonely anymore.”

  “I haven't been lonely, not since you came.”

  “Liar. I've seen the way you gaze off into the distance, and the sad music you pull out of that violin when you think I'm not listening. Let me be there to provide you with a small part of home.” She placed a hand across his mouth. “Don't argue.”

  So he didn't, and he allowed himself to be convinced. More out of love for her than any real acceptance of her arguments. And late that night, as her legs tightened about his waist, and her nails raked down his sweat-slick back, and he came in violent release, she reached out, and sucked in his mind as well.

  There was a terrible, gut-wrenching moment of violation, theft, loss, then it was over, and from the mirror of her mind came back two images. The beloved, lady-soft, gentle touch that was Blythe, and a frighteningly familiar and equally beloved image that was him.

  “Damn them all!” Tachyon raged the length of the small antechamber, spun, and fixed Prescott Quinn with an outthrust forefinger. “It is outrageous, unconscionable, to summon us in this manner. How dare they—and by what right do they—pull us from our home, and send us haring off to Washington on two hours'—two hours'—notice?”

  Quinn sucked noisily on the stem of his pipe. “By the right of law and custom. They're members of Congress, and this committee is empowered to call and examine witnesses.” He was a burly old man with an impressive gut that stretched his watch chain, complete with Phi Beta Kappa key, across the severe black of his waistcoat.

  “Then call us in to witness—though God knows to what—and have an end to this. We came tumbling down here last night only to be told the hearing had been postponed, and now they keep us cooling our heels for three hours.”

  Quinn grunted, and rubbed at his bushy white eyebrows. “If you think this is much of a wait, young man, you've a lot to learn about the federal government.”

  “Tach, sit down, have some coffee,” murmured Blythe, looking pale but composed in a black knit dress, veiled hat, and gloves.

  David Harstein came mooching into the antechamber, and the two Marine guards at the chamber door stiffened and eyed him warily. “Thank God, a touch of sanity in the midst of madness and nightmares.”

  “Oh, David, darling.” Blythe's hands clutched feverishly at his shoulders. “Are you all right? Was it terrible yesterday?”

  “No, it was great . . . all except being continually referred to as the 'Jewish gentleman from New York' by that Nazi Rankin. They questioned me about China: I told them we had done everything possible to negotiate a settlement between Mao and Chiang. They of course concurred. I then suggested that they disband these hearings, and they agreed amid much joy and applause, and—”

  “And then you left the room,” interrupted Tach.

  “Yes.” His dark head drooped and he contemplated his clasped hands. “They're constructing a glass booth now, and I'll be recalled. Damn them anyway!”

  A supercilious page entered and called for Mrs. Blythe van Renssaeler. She started, her purse falling to the floor. Tach recovered it, and pressed his cheek against hers.

  “Peace, beloved. You're more than a match for them alone, much less with all the rest of you along. And don't forget, I'm with you.” She smiled faintly. Quinn took her arm, and escorted her into the hearing room. Tachyon had a brief glimpse of backs, cameras, and a jumble of tables all washed in a fierce white light from the television spots. Then the door closed with a dull thud.

  “Game?” asked David.

  “Sure, why not.”

  “I'm not imposing? Would you rather prepare your testimony?”

  “What testimony? I don't know anything about China.”

  “When did they get you?” His deft hands flew, setting up the board.

  “Yesterday afternoon about one.”

  “It's all such a crock,” the Envoy said with a marked lack of diplomacy, and viciously jammed in a pawn at Queen's pawn four.

  They were still at the game when Blythe and Quinn returned. The board went flying with the alien's precipitous leap, but David didn't remonstrate with him. Blythe was as pale as death, and shaking.

  “What did they do?” demanded Tach, the words harsh in his throat. She didn't answer, merely shivered within the circle of his arms like a wounded animal.

  “Dr. Tachyon, this is going a bit beyond China. We must talk.”

  “A moment.” He bent to her, and pressed his lips against her temple. He could feel the pulse beating there. Quickly he slipped beneath her defense, and sent a calming tide flowing through her mind. With a final shudder she relaxed, and loosened her grip on the lapel of his pale peach coat. “Sit with David, love. I have to talk to Mr. Quinn.” He knew he was talking down to her, but stress could warp the fragile structure she had constructed to keep her divergent personalities separated, and what he ha
d found in that brief incursion had been an eroding edifice.

  The lawyer drew him aside. “China was the excuse, Doctor. The issue now is this virus. I think this committee has gotten the idea that the aces are a subversive force, and they may reflect the mood in the country at large.”

  “Dr. Tachyon,” called the page. Quinn waved him back with an abrupt slash.

  “Absurd!”

  “Nonetheless, I now understand why you're here. My advice to you is to take the Fifth.”

  “Which means?”

  “You refuse to answer all and any questions. That includes your name. Such a response has been construed as a waiver of the Fifth.”

  Tach drew himself up to his full, unimpressive height. “I do not fear these men, Mr. Quinn, nor will I sit and condemn myself by silence. We will stop this foolishness now!”

  The room was an obstacle course of lights, chairs, tables, people, and the snaking cables. Once he caught his heel, stumbled, pulling himself up with a muttered curse. For an instant the room faded, and he saw the parqueted, chandelier-lit expanse of the Ilkazam ballroom and heard the titters of family and friends as he had stood lost in the midst of the intricacies of Princes Baffled. Because of his error the dance had come to a grinding, stumbling halt, and over the music he could hear his cousin Zabb's nasal voice describing in ruthless detail precisely which step he had missed. Hot blood rushed to his cheeks, and brought a line of sweat to his upper lip. Removing a handkerchief he dabbed at the moisture, then noticed that his discomfort was not entirely due to his memories; because of the television lights the room was broiling.

  As he settled himself on the hard, straight-backed wooden chair, Tach noted the skeletal frame of the glass box that was being built to house David. It seemed somehow ominous, like a half-finished scaffold, and he quickly switched his gaze to the nine men who dared to sit in judgment on him and his genamiri. They were remarkable only for their expressions of grim portentousness. Otherwise they were merely a collection of middle-aged to elderly men dressed in ill-fitting dark suits. An expression of regal disdain settled over his features, and he lounged back in the chair, his very relaxation making a mockery of their power.

  “Wish you had heeded me on the matter of your dress,” murmured Quinn as he opened his briefcase.

  “You told me to dress well. I did.”

  Quinn eyed the swallow-tailed coat and pants of pale peach, the vest embroidered in shades of green and gold, and the high soft boots with their gold tassels. “Black would have been better.”

  “I'm not a common laborer.”

  “Would you state your name for the committee,” said Chairman Wood, without looking up from his papers.

  He leaned in to the microphone. “I am known on your world as Dr. Tachyon.”

  “Your full and real name.”

  “You're quite certain you want that?”

  “Would I ask it otherwise?” Wood grunted testily.

  “As you wish.” Smiling faintly, the alien launched into a recitation of his complete pedigree. “Tisianne brant Ts'ara sek Halima sek Ragnar sek Omian. So ends my mother's line, Omian being a relative newcomer to the Ilkazam clan having married in from the Zaghloul. My maternal grandfather was Taj brant Parada sek Amurath sek Ledaa sek Shahriar sek Naxina. His sire was Bakonur brant Sennari—”

  “Thank you,” Wood said hurriedly. He glanced down the table at his colleagues. “Perhaps for the purposes of this hearing we can make do with his nom de plume?”

  “De guerre,” he corrected sweetly, and enjoyed Wood's flush of irritation.

  There followed several pointless and meandering questions about where he lived and worked; then John Rankin of Mississippi leaned in. “Now as I understand it, Dr. Tachyon, you are not a citizen of the United States of America.”

  Tach shot Quinn an incredulous glance. There were titters from the assembled journalists, and Rankin glared.

  “No, sir.”

  “Then you are an alien.” Satisfaction laced the words.

  “Undeniably,” he drawled. Leaning nonchalantly back in the chair, he began to play with the folds of his cravat.

  Case of South Dakota stepped in. “And did you or did you not enter this country illegally?”

  “There didn't seem to be an immigration center at White Sands, on the other hand I didn't ask, being concerned with more pressing matters at the time.”

  “But you have at no time during the intervening years applied for American citizenship?”

  The chair scraped back and Tach was on his feet. “The Ideal grant me patience. This is absurd. I have no desire to become a citizen of your country. Your world I find compelling, and even if my ship were capable of hyperspatial travel I would remain because I have patients who need me. What I do not have is either the time or the inclination to bark and caper for the amusement of this ignorant tribunal. Please, carry on with your little games, but leave me to my work—”

  Quinn pulled him bodily down into the chair, and laid a hand over the mike. “Just keep it up, and you'll be surveying this world from behind the walls of a federal penitentiary,” he hissed. “Accept it now! These men have power over you and the means to exercise it. Now apologize, and let's see what we can salvage from this mess.”

  He did so, but with poor grace, and the questioning continued. It was Nixon of California who brought them to the heart of the matter.

  “As I understand it, Doctor, it was your family who developed this virus that has cost so many people their lives. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He cleared his throat, and said more audibly this time, “Yes.”

  “And so you came—”

  “To try and prevent its release.”

  “And what corroboration do you have for this claim, Tachyon?” granted Rankin.

  “My ship's logs detailing my exchange with the crew of the other ship.”

  “And can you obtain these logs?” Nixon again.

  “They're on my ship.”

  An aide skittered up onto the platform, and there was a hurried conference. “Reports indicate that your ship has resisted all efforts to enter.”

  “It was so ordered.”

  “Will you arrange to open it, and allow the Air Force to remove the logs?”

  “No.” They regarded each other for a long moment. “Will you return my ship, and then I'll bring you the logs?”

  “No.”

  He fell back once more in the chair and shrugged. “Well, they wouldn't have done you much good anyway; we weren't speaking English.”

  “And what about these other aliens? Can we question them?” Rankin's mouth twisted as if he were regarding something peculiarly unpleasant and slimy.

  “I'm afraid they're all dead.” His voice dropped as he again struggled with the guilt the memories still brought. “I misjudged their determination. They fought the grappler beam, and broke up in the atmosphere.”

  “Very convenient. So convenient that I wonder if it wasn't planned that way?”

  “It was Jetboy's failure that released the virus.”

  “Do not sully the name of that great American hero with your slanderous lies!” Rankin shouted, winding up into his full Southernpreacher mode. “I submit to this committee and to the nation that you have remained on this world to study the effects of your evil experiment. That those other aliens were acting as kamikazes ready to die so that you might appear a hero, and live among us accepted and revered, but that in fact you are an alien subversive seekin' to undermine this great nation by the use of these dangerous wild elements—”

  “No!” He was on his feet, hands braced on the table, leaning in on his inquisitors. “No one regrets the events of '46 more than I. Yes, I failed . . . failed to stop the ship, failed to locate the globe, failed to convince the authorities of the danger, failed to help Jetboy, and I must live with that failure for the rest of my life! All I can do is offer myself . . . my talents, my experience working w
ith this virus, to undo what I have created—I'm sorry . . . sorry.” He broke off, choked, and sipped gratefully at the water offered by Quinn.

  The heat was like a tangible thing, coiling about his body, stealing the breath from his lungs, and leaving him light-headed. He willed himself not to faint, and pulling the handkerchief from his pocket he wiped at his eyes, and knew he had made another mistake. Males in this culture were trained to suppress emotion. He had just violated another of their taboos. He dropped heavily back into the chair.

  “If you are indeed repentant, Dr. Tachyon, then demonstrate it to this committee. What I require from you is a complete list of all the so-called 'aces' you have ever treated or heard about. Names . . . addresses if possible, and—”

  “No.”

  “You would be assistin' your country.”

  “It's not my country, and I won't help you in your witch-hunts.”

  “You are in this country illegally, Doctor. Could be that it's in the best interests of this nation if you were deported. So I'd think over your answer very carefully if I were you.”

  “It requires no further thought . . . I will not betray my patients.”

  “Then the committee has no further questions of this witness.”

  At the front doors of the Capitol they walked full into a pale, sharp-featured man.

  A tiny sound escaped Blythe, and she clutched at Tach's arm.

  “Afternoon, Henry,” grunted Quinn, and the alien realized that this was the husband of the woman who had shared his bed and his life for two and a half years.

  He seemed familiar. Tach had been contending with this persona every time he joined with Blythe in telepathic or physical union. Granted, Henry had been relegated to an unused corner of her mind like discarded lumber in a dusty attic, but the mind was there, and it wasn't a very nice mind.

  “Blythe.”

  “Henry.”

  He raked Tachyon with a cold glance. “If you would excuse us, I'd like to talk to my wife.”

  “No, please, don't leave me.” Her fingers plucked at his coat, and he carefully freed them before she could utterly ruin the crease, and clasped her hand warmly in his.